A Sunny Little Lass

CHAPTER XI

A Haven of Refuge

Glory’s walk and heavy burden had exhausted her and, almost unconsciously, she let Bonny Angel slip from her arms to the door-step where she stood. There the child lay, flushed and motionless, in a sleep which nothing disturbed, though hitherto she had wakened at any call. Now, though in remorse at her own carelessness, Take-a-Stitch bent over the little one and begged her pardon most earnestly, the baby gave no sign of hearing and slumbered on with her face growing a deeper red and her breath beginning to come in a way that recalled the old captain’s snores.

“What shall I do now?” cried poor Glory, aloud, looking around over the wide country, so unlike the crowded Lane, and seeing no shelter anywhere at which she dared again apply. Some buildings there were, behind and removed from the cottage; but they were so like that inhospitable structure in color and design that she felt their indwellers would also be the same.

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t come all that way over the grass,” said poor Glory. “If we’d stayed by them car-rails, likely we’d have come somewhere that there was houses–different. And, Bonny Angel, sweetest, preciousest, darlingest one, do please, please, wake up and walk yourself just a little, teeny, tiny bit. Then, when I get rested a mite, I’ll carry you again, ’cause we’ve got to go, you see. That Timothy was mistook an’ his sister’s husband’s cousin won’t let us in.”

Yet even while her back was toward it, as she contemplated the landscape pondering which way lay her road, the door again suddenly opened and Mary Fogarty announced, shrilly, but not unkindly:

“There’s the wagon-house. You can rest there a spell, seein’ you was simple enough to lug that hefty young one clear across the meadder. It’s that third one, where the big door stands open an’ the stone-boat is.”

Glory faced about, her face at once radiant with gratitude, and its effect upon the cottage mistress was to further soften her asperity, so that though she again ejaculated that contemptuous “Huh!” it was in a milder tone; and, with something like interest she demanded, “How long ’s that baby been that feverish she is now? She looks ’s if she was comin’ down with somethin’ catchin’. Best get her home, soon ’s you can, sissy. She ain’t fit to be runnin’ round loose.”

Poor little Bonny Angel didn’t look much like “running loose” at present, and as for “home,” the word brought an intolerable feeling to Glory’s heart, making the sunny fields before her to seem like prison walls that yet had a curious sort of wobble to them, as if they were dancing up and down in a wild way. But that was because she regarded them now through a mist of tears she could not repress, while visions of a shadowy Lane, whose very gloom would have been precious to her on that hot day, obtruded themselves upon the scene.

With a desperate desire for guidance, Glory burst out her whole story and Mary Fogarty was forced to listen, whether or no. To that good woman’s credit it was that as she listened her really warm heart, upon which Timothy Dowd had counted, got the better of her impatience and, once more closing the door upon her peeping children, she said,

“Why, you poor, brave little creatur’! Come this way. I’ll show you where, though you must carry the baby yourself, if so be she won’t carry herself. I’ve got seven o’ my own an’ I wouldn’t have nothin’ catchin’ get amongst them, not for a fortune. I wouldn’t dare. I’ve had ’em down, four er five to a time, with whooping-cough an’ measles an’ scarletina an’ what not; an’ now sence the twinses come, I don’t want no more of it I can tell you. Don’t lag.”

Mary strode along, “like a horse,” as her husband frequently complimented her, walking as fast as she was talking and, with Bonny Angel in her arms, Goober Glory did her best to keep a similar pace. But this was impossible. Not only were her feet heavy beneath the burden she bore, but her heart ached with foreboding. With Bonny Angel ill, how was the search for grandpa to go on? How to look for the little one’s own people? Yet how terrible that they must be left in their grief while she could do nothing to comfort them.

“Oh, if they only knew! She’s so safe with me, I love her so. If I could only tell them! I wonder–I wonder who they are and where they are and shall I ever, ever find them!” she exclaimed in her anxiety as, coming to the wagon-house door, she found Mistress Fogarty awaiting her.

That lady answered with her own cheerful exclamation, “’Course you will. Everything comes right, everywhere, give it time enough. Now step right up into this loft. There’s a bed here that the extry man sleeps on when there is an extry. None now. Real gardenin’ comes to a standstill when Dennis has the chills. You can put the baby down there an’ let her sleep her sleep out. You might ’s well lie down yourself and take a snooze, bein’ you’re that petered out a luggin’.

“I must get back an’ start up dinner,” continued Mary. “It’s a big job, even with Dennis round to peel and watch the fryin’. Seven youngsters of my own, with him an’ me, and ten boarders – My, it takes a pile of bread to keep all them mouths full, let alone pies an’ fixin’s. It’s vegetable soup to-day, and as the gang’s working right nigh, they’ll all be in prompt. I won’t forget ye, an’ I’ll send something out to ye by somebody–but don’t you pay me back by giving one of my children anything catchin’!”

Before Glory could assure the anxious mother that she would do her utmost for their safety, Mary had run down the rude stairs, shaking the shed-like building as she ran, and was within the red cottage ere the visitor realized it.

Glory exclaimed, as she gazed about, “Here we are, at last, in a regular house! And my, isn’t it big? Why, ever an’ ever so much bigger than the ‘littlest house in Ne’ York!’ That bed’s wide enough for all Meg’s children to onct, and–my, how Bonny Angel does sleep. I’m sleepy, too, now I see such a prime place. The woman told me to sleep and I guess I’d better mind.”

So, presently, having removed Bonny’s draggled coat from the still drowsy child, Glory placed her charge at the extreme back of the bed and lay down herself.

“Wake up, sissy! Come down an’ get your basin of soup. Enough in it for the pair of ye, with strawberry shortcake to match!”

It was this summons which aroused Glory from a delightful slumber and she sprang to her feet, not comprehending, at first, what she heard or where she was. Then she returned, laughing as she spoke, “’Course I’ll come, you splendid Mary Fogarty! And I’m more obliged ’an I can say, but I’ll work it out, I truly will try to work it out, if you’ll hunt up your jobs. That dear Timothy said you needed mendin’, dreadful!”

But she was unaware that this same Timothy was also close at hand.

“Oh! he did, did he? Well, he said the true word for once, but bad manners in him all the same,” answered Mrs. Fogarty; and, as Glory joined them at the foot of the stairs, there were the two engaged in a sort of scuffle which had more mirth than malice in it.

When Take-a-Stitch appeared, they regarded her with a look of compassion which she did not understand; because at the dinner, now comfortably over, the child and her hopeless search had been discussed and the ten boarders, the seven children, with their parents, had all reached one and the same conclusion, namely, that the only safe place for such innocent and ignorant vagrants was in some “Asylum.” Who was to announce this decision and convey the little ones to their place of refuge had not, as yet, been settled. Nobody was inclined to take up that piece of work and the ten boarders sauntered back to their more congenial labor on the railroad, leaving the matter in Mary Fogarty’s hands.

However, it was a matter destined for nobody to settle, because when Glory had carefully conveyed the basin of soup, the pitcher of milk and the generous slices of shortcake back to the loft, she was frightened out of all hunger by the appearance of Bonny Angel. It was almost the first time in her life that the little “Queen of Elbow Lane” had had a dinner set before her of such proper quantity and quality, yet she was not to taste it.

Bonny was tossing to and fro, sometimes moaning with pain, sometimes shrieking in terror, but always in such a state as to banish every thought save of herself from Glory’s mind. And then began a week of the greatest anxiety and distress which even the little caretaker of Elbow Lane, with her self-imposed charge of its many children, had ever known.

“If she should die before I find her folks! If it’s ’cause I haven’t done the best I could for her – Oh, what shall I do!” wailed Take-a-Stitch, herself grown haggard with watching and grief, so that she looked like any other than the winsome child who had flashed upon Miss Bonnicastle’s vision at that memorable visit of hers to that crooked little alley where they had met.

And Timothy Dowd, the only one of the big household near, whom Mary Fogarty permitted to enter the wagon-house-hospital, sighed as he answered with an affected cheerfulness: “Sure, it’s nobody dies around these parts; not a body since I was put to work on this section the road. So, why more her nor another an’ she the youngest o’ the lot? Younger, betoken, nor the twinses theirselves.

“An’ it’s naught but that crotchetty woman, yon,” continued Tim, “that’s cousin to me own sister’s husband, ’d have took such fool notions into her head. Forbiddin’ me, even me, her own relation by marriage, to set foot inside her door till she says the word, an’ somebody tellin’ her we should be smoked out with sulphur an’ brimstone, like rats in a hole, ere ever we can mix with decent folks again. An’ some of the boys, even, takin’ that nonsense from herself, an’ not likin’ to dig in the same ditch along with the contagious Tim. Sure, it’s contagious an’ cantankerous and all them other big things we’ll be, when we get out o’ this an’ find the old captain, your grandpa, an’ the biggest kind of a celebration ’twill be, or never saw I the blue skies of old Ireland! Bless the sod!”

But in his heart, faithful Timothy did not look for Bonny Angel’s recovery. Nobody knew what ailed her, since physician had not been called. Against such professional advice, Mary Fogarty had set her big foot with an unmovable firmness. Doctors had never interfered in her household save once, when Dennis, misguided man, had consulted one. And witness, everybody, hadn’t he been sick and useless ever since?

So, from a safe distance, she assumed charge of the case; sending Glory a pair of shears with which to shave Bonny’s sunny head, directing that all windows should be closed, lest the little patient “take cold,” and preparing food suitable for the hardest working “boarder,” rather than the delicate stomach of a sick child.

However, had they known it, there was nothing whatever infectious about little Bonny’s illness, which was simply the result of unaccustomed exposure and unwholesome food; nor did good Mary’s unwise directions cause any great harm, because, though a delicate child, the baby was a healthy one. She had no desire for the coarse food that was offered her but drank frequently of the milk that accompanied it; and as for the matter of fresh air, although Glory had to keep the windows closed, there was plenty of ventilation from the wide apertures under the eaves of the shed.

At the end of the week, the devoted young nurse had the delight of hearing her “Angel” laugh outright, for the first time in so many days, and to feel her darling’s arms about her own neck while the pale little lips cried out once more the familiar, “Bonny come! Bonny come!”

To catch her tiny “Guardian” up and run with her to the cottage-door took but a minute, but there Glory’s enthusiasm was promptly dashed by Mary’s appearance. Shaking her arms vigorously, she “shooed” the pair away, as she “shooed” everything objectionable out of her path.

“Stand back! Stand back, the two of ye! Don’t dast to come anigh, sence the time of gettin’ over things is the very worst time to give ’em. Hurry back to the wagon-house, quick, quick! And once you’re safe inside, I’ll fetch you some other clothes that you must both put on. Every stitch you’ve wore, ary one, and the bedclothes, has got to be burnt. Tim’s to burn ’em this noonin’. I’ve got no girl your size, but that don’t matter. I’ve cut off an old skirt o’ my own, for your outside, an’ little Joe’s your very pattern for shape, so his shirt an’ blouse ’ll do amazin’ well. As for the baby, she can put on a suit of the twinses’ till so be we can do better. Now hurry up!”

Glory could not help lingering for a moment to ask, “Must it be burned? Do you really, truly, mean to burn Bonny Angel’s lovely white silk coat, an’ her pretty dress all lace an’ trimmin’? An’ my blue frock–why, I haven’t wore it but two years, that an’ the other one to home. It’s as good as good, only lettin’ out tucks now and then an’ – ”

“Huh! S’pose you, a little girl, know more about what’s right than I do, a big growed up woman? I’ve took you in an’ done for ye all this time an’ the least you can do is to do as you’re told,” replied Mrs. Fogarty, in her sharpest manner.

Thus reprimanded, Glory retreated to the wagon-house, whence, after a time, she reappeared so altered by her new attire that she scarcely knew herself. Much less, did she think, that any old friend of Elbow Lane would recognize her. She was next directed to carry all the discarded clothing and bedding to a certain spot in the barnyard, where Timothy would make a bonfire of it as soon as he appeared; and her heart ached to part with the silken coat which had enwrapped her precious “Guardian,” even though it were now soiled and most disreputable.

However, these were minor troubles. The joyful fact remained that Bonny Angel had not died but was already recovered and seemed more like her own gay little self with every passing moment. Clothes didn’t matter, even if they were those of a boy. They needed considerable hitching up and pinning, for they were as minus of buttons as all the garments seemed to be which had to pass through Mary Fogarty’s hands and washtub; but a few strings would help and maybe Timothy Dowd could supply those; and if once Take-a-Stitch could get her fingers upon a needle and thread–my, how she would alter everything!

Summoned back to the cottage, after she had fulfilled her hostess’s last demand, Glory’s spirits rose to the highest. It was the first time she had entered the ranks of the seven other children which filled it to overflowing, and who were “shooed” into or out of it, according to their mother’s whim.

It happened to be out, just then, and with the throng Glory, fast holding Bonny in her arms, chanced to pass close beside the shivering Dennis in his seat by the stove. He looked at her curiously but kindly, and his gaze moved from her now happy face to that of the child in her clasp, where it rested with such a fixed yet startled expression that Glory exclaimed, “Oh, sir, what is it? Do you see anything wrong with my precious?”

Now it was the fact that Dennis Fogarty spoke as seldom as his wife did often; and that when he was most profoundly moved he spoke not at all. So then, though his eyes kept their astonished, perplexed expression, his lips closed firmly and to Glory’s anxious inquiry, he made no reply.

Therefore, waiting but a moment longer, she hurried after the other children and in five minutes was leading them at their games just as she had always led the Elbow children in theirs. But Bonny was still too weak and too small to keep up very long with the boisterous play of these new mates, and seeing this, Take-a-Stitch presently made the seven group themselves around her on the grass while she told them tales.

Glory thought of all the fairy stories with which the old blind captain had beguiled their darkened evenings in that “littlest house” where gas or lamplight could not be afforded; then she went on to real stories of the Elbow children themselves; of Meg-Laundress and Posy Jane; and most of all of Nick and Billy, her chosen comrades and almost brothers. One and all the young Fogartys listened open-mouthed and delighted; but, when pressed to talk more about that “grandpa you’re lookin’ for,” poor Glory grew silent.

It was one of the loveliest spots in the world where Glory sat that morning, with its view of field and mountain and the wonderful river winding placidly between; but the outcast child would have exchanged it all for just one glimpse of a squalid alley, and a tiny familiar doorway, wherein an old seaman should be sitting carving a bit of wood.

Thinking of him, though not talking, she became less interesting company to the Fogartys, who withdrew one by one, attracted by the odor of dinner preparing, and hungry for the scraps which would be tossed among them by their indulgent mother.

Bonny Angel went to sleep; and, holding her snugly, Glory herself leaned back against the tree trunk where she was sitting and closed her own eyes. She did this the better to mature her plans for the search she meant to resume that very day, if possible, and certainly by the morrow at the latest. Now that Bonny was so nearly well, she must go on; and as her head whirled with the thoughts which swarmed it, it seemed to her that she had “grown as old as old since grandpa went away.”

Glory at last decided that she had best stop thinking and planning altogether, just for a moment, and go to sleep as Bonny Angel had done. She remembered that grandpa had often said that a nap of “forty winks” would clear his own head and set him up lively for the rest of the day. Whatever Captain Simon Beck, in his great wisdom said was right, must be so; and though it seemed very lazy for a big girl such as she to take “forty winks” on her own account and in the daytime, she did take them and with so many repetitions of the “forty” that the boarders had all come home across the fields before she roused again to know what was going on about her.

There was a hum of voices on the other side of the tree; and though they were low, as if not intended for her ear, they were also very earnest and in evident dispute over some subject which she gradually learned was none other than herself.

She had been going to call out to them, cheerily, but what she heard made her sit up and listen closely. Not very honorable, it may be, yet wholly natural, since Mistress Mary was insisting:

“There’s no use talkin’, Timothy Dowd, them two must pack to the first ‘Asylum’ will take ’em in. The sooner the better and this very day the best of all. ’Twas yourself brought ’em or sent ’em, and ’tis yourself must do the job. You can knock off work this half-day and get it settled.”

“Oh, but Mary, me cousin, by marriage that is. I hate it. I hate it worse nor ever was. Sure, it was bad enough touchin’ a match to them neat little clothes o’ theirs but forcin’ themselves away – Ah! Mary, mother o’ seven, think! What if ’twas one o’ your own, now?” wheedled Tim.

But Mary was not to be moved. Indeed, she dared not be. As Glory had already learned, Dennis Fogarty was the now useless gardener of the rich family which lived in the great house on the hill beyond, and to whom the abused Queen Anne cottage and all the other red outbuildings visible belonged.

The rich people were very particular to have all things on their estate kept in perfect order; and though they had no fault to find with Dennis himself, whenever he was well enough to work, they did find much fault with his shiftless or careless wife, while the brood of noisy children was a constant annoyance to them, whenever they occupied Broadacres.

It was for this reason that during the family’s stay at the great house, Mary so seldom allowed her children out of the house; nor had Dennis ever permitted her to visit the place in person when there was any chance of her being seen by his employers. He felt that he held his own position merely by their generosity; nor did he approve of her boarding the workmen of the near-by railway. Still, he knew that his children must be fed, and, without the money she earned, how could they be?

Mary’s argument, then, against taking into her home two more children, to make bad matters worse, was a good one, and Timothy could find no real word to say against it. Yet he was all in sympathy with Glory’s search for the missing seaman, and how could he be the instrument of shutting her up in any institution, no matter how good, where she could not continue that search?

Having heard thus much, and recalling even then Posy Jane’s saying about “listeners hearin’ no good o’ theirselves,” Take-a-Stitch quietly rose and went around the tree till she stood before her troubled friends.

“Why, I thought you was asleep!” cried poor Timothy, rather awkwardly and very red in the face.

“So I was, part of the time. Part I wasn’t and I listened. I shouldn’t ought, I know, an’ grandpa would say so, but I’m glad I did, ’cause you needn’t worry no more ’bout Bonny Angel an’ me. I will start right off. I was going to, to-morrow, anyway, if she didn’t get sick again; an’ Mis’ Fogarty will have to leave us these clothes till–till–I can some time–some day–maybe earn some for myself. Then I’ll get ’em sent back, somehow, an’ – ”

By this time, Mary was also upon her feet, tearful and compassionate and fain to turn her eyes away from the sad, brave little face that confronted her. Yet not even her pity could fathom the longing of this vagrant “Queen” for her dirty Lane and her loyal subjects; nor how she shrank in terror from the lonely search she knew she must yet continue, thinking, “’Cause grandpa would never have give me up if I was lost and I never will him, never, never, never! But if only Billy, er Nick, er – ”